Quotes About Emotion

A memory is not the thing remembered

Well, Adam thought. I've had my mouth on his bare skin. That seemed to be effective.

How you leave the reader is so important - not the climax; I call it the 'exit feeling'.

still amazed at how anyone could pack so much of themselves into lines

I just feel like my body is in all these different pieces and even though it looks like I'm all put together, the pieces are really just floating there and if I fall down too hard, I'll fly apart.

Death is suddenly objectionable to you when the dead has a name you know?

I want her so much, my heart feels heavy, like i'm grieving. Is this what they meant about that stomach feeling? They didn't say it felt this sad.

Patrick Ness, A MONSTER CALLS

Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.

You do not know the first note of the music that moves me.

I wanted to tell her that she was the first beautiful thing I had seen in three years. That the sight of her yawning to the back of her hand was enought to drive the breath from me. How I sometimes lost the sense of her words in the sweet fluting of her voice. I wanted to say that if she were with me then somehow nothing could ever be wrong for me again.

Anger can keep you warm at night, and wounded pride can spur a man to wondrous things.

A poet is a musician who can't sing.

You," I said, "are sweet music in a distant room.

I smiled,"Deoch, my heart is made of stronger stuff than glass. When she strikes she'll find it strong as iron-bound brass, or gold and adamant together mixed. Don't think I am unaware, some startled deer to stand transfixed by hunter's horns. It's she who should take care, for when she strikes, my heart will make a sound so beautiful and bright that it can't help but bring her back to me in winged light.

Words have to find a man's mind before they can touch his heart, and some men's minds are woefully small targets.

Then I played the song that hides in the center of me. That wordless music that moves through the secret places in my heart. I played it carefully, strumming it slow and low into the dark stillness of the night. I would like to say it is a happy song, that it is sweet and bright, but it is not.

Hours later the blank sheet still stared at me, and I beat my fist against the desk in fury and fustration, striking it so hard my hand bled. That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.

Asleep she was a painting of a fire. Awake she was the fire itself

Words cannot always do the work we need them to. Music is there for when words fail us.

Love is blind, and a deaf-mute too.

We are the Edema Ruh, and the thing we value most every man possesses. You can tell us your story.

We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it.

I spoke it soft, but close enough to brush against her lips. I spoke it quiet, but near enough so that the sound of it went twining through her hair. I spoke it hard and firm and dark and sweet.